the kind where vegetables came from fenced gardens,
not riverbanks,
not roadside ditches.
She could afford to be picky.
She knew the difference
between what was gathered and what was bought,
what grew in mud
and what came washed and waiting in woven baskets.
And still,
she chose lupo.
Sessile joyweed.
A weed with a name
too soft for the tongue,
too stubborn for the soil to forget.
She would look for it
when the tide of her mood was calm enough,
wade into the edges of rice fields,
where the water sits still and clouded
like memory.
She’d pluck it—only the young shoots—
with the same fingers that once wore gold.
Back home,
she’d rinse it
like she was waking it up from sleep,
sauté it with garlic
until the oil turned fragrant and familiar,
then drop in the prawns—
plump, pink things
that curled like question marks in the pan.
I didn’t want to eat it at first.
I was young,
I wanted food that looked like it belonged
on bright plates,
not green things that grew
where frogs laid eggs.
But she looked at me—
not with scolding,
but with a kind of pity.
As if I didn’t yet understand
what survival tastes like
when you add just enough love
to make it shine.
So I tasted it—
the bitterness,
the salt of the sea,
the sweetness of prawns
that burst like secrets in the mouth.
And something inside me
shifted.
Now she’s gone.
And I think about that dish
the way people think about lullabies—
not just for comfort,
but for proof.
Proof that love can be foraged,
not just bought.
That even the picky can be wise.
That sometimes,
a weed with prawns
can hold more memory
than a feast ever could.
She taught me that.
Not with words,
but with the sizzle of garlic,
and the silence
that always followed
the first bite.
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